Chapter LXIII

“_Scrivo sol per sfogar l’interna doglia_”
VITTORIA COLONNA

My heart’s a wound of piteousness to-day
Because our crimson room last night was seen
The shadow of all sin since time has been—
That color that Macbeth washed not away.
Fear came between our kisses then. “Nay! nay!—
The world, how can it know our love has been?”
The moon—look!—tells it now to stars that lean
In eagerness; and they to winds that sway

The talking trees. Ah! when I leave you, Dear,
What horrors in the dawn upon me’ll seize
At many fingered mockery of leaves
A-point at me! The world will see—will hear—
The merciless white Day no one deceives,
And O! all those black-fingered, scornful trees!

II
_THE PASSING OF LOVE_

“Now, thou Hyacinth, whisper the letters on thee graven and add a deeper _ai, ai_ to thy petals.”

—Moschus